Morning began just as predictably as a welltimed train. Andy Thompson woke a minute before his alarmsomething hed managed for years without ever breaking the habit. He lay there a few seconds, staring at the ceiling, listening to the faint rush of water from the bathroom; his wife had already risen. The bedroom was cool, the curtains halfdrawn, letting a dull grey light seep in.
He reached for his phone, checked email, messages, calendar. No surprises. Nineam teamhuddle, elevenam meeting with the bank, then lunch with a potential partner. All on schedule.
The kitchen smelled of coffee and toasted bread. Blythe, wrapped in a fluffy robe and with her hair pulled into a careless bun, was already pulling slices from the toaster. On the table lay a spread newspaper and Andys favourite mug.
Running late today? she asked without turning.
Hard to say, Andy poured himself a coffee. It depends on the bank. If we sign, Ill be out by eight.
She nodded, settled opposite him, scrolling through the news on her phone. Their conversation never really clicked, but that hadnt seemed odd for ages. They lived sidebyside, hardly interfering, like two parallel lines. On the surface everything looked pictureperfect: a flat in central London, a cosy cottage up north, a sleek Jaguar, holidays planned months in advance.
Andy ate, the taste almost absent. His mind was already in the office, rehearsing figures to keep the bank from trying to bargain. He liked everything by the book, free of surprises.
Only one episode didnt fit the neat portrait of his lifethe one hed long ago tried not to think about. Over twenty years ago, when he was still at a tiny firm on the outskirts, salaries were delayed and the office rent had to be paid in cash, tucked into envelopes. Back then he and his partner had cobbled together a scheme with dummy contracts. By todays standards the sum was laughably small, but at the time it felt like salvation. One accountant ended up bearing the brunt of it all. Andy preferred to see it as an unfortunate coincidence, not his fault.
He pushed the memory aside, took another sip of coffee, and glanced at the clock.
Im off, he said, standing.
Blythe gave a brief nod, eyes still glued to her screen.
Outside, the street buzzed with cars, horns, a driver waiting at the pavement as always, punctual as a Swiss watch. Andy slipped into the back seat, reflexively checking that his briefcase was still on the passenger floor.
His office sat in a glass tower in the City, where hed started in a cramped cubicle and now occupied almost half a floor. In the reception, the secretary greeted him.
Good morning, Mr Thompson. A courier left something for you; Ive placed it on your desk.
From whom?
She didnt say. Just dropped it off and left.
He gave a polite nod and headed to his office. The space was spacious, floortoceiling windows, a massive desk, neatly framed certificates on the walleverything shouting stability and success.
On top of a tidy stack of paperwork sat an envelope. Thick, white, with no return address, bearing only his name in a crisp, slightly oldfashioned hand.
He lifted the envelope, feeling the textured, expensivelooking paper. A whiff of something out of place drifted into his polished day.
Another piece of junk mail, he muttered, though he knew it wasnt a brochure.
The secretary peeked in.
Would you like some coffee?
Yes, thanks, he replied, waiting until she left before carefully tearing the envelopes edge.
Inside was a single sheet, printed in black ink, unsigned.
You remember back in 98, in that tiny thirdfloor office, you signed three sham service contracts? You said no one would be hurt. Yet a man lost his job and later his flat. Hes still alive.
You like to think everythings under control. The past doesnt vanish; it merely waits for you to let your guard down.
If you want your partners and family to stay in the dark, be ready to talk.
Ill be in touch soon.
Andys mouth went dry. He read the note again, feeling a heavy weight settle in his chest. The words were precise, not vague hints but specific facts.
He slipped back into his chair, the paper trembling in his grip. His heart thumped faster than usual. The memory of that shabby office, peeling paint, the old desk where he and his partner stayed up late scheming, resurfaced.
He had indeed promised that no one would be harmed. The accountanta quiet middleaged manhad simply stopped showing up one day. Rumours swirled that hed been sacked, that he was in debt. Andy never bothered. Hed already learned not to look back.
He placed the sheet next to the envelope, closed his eyes. Who could have written this after all these years?
A knock sounded.
Mr Thompson, ready for the huddle? the finance director called, a tall man with a neat haircut. People are gathering.
Andy reflexively covered the paper with a folder.
Right, Im coming, he said, trying to keep his voice even.
During the meeting he nodded, took notes, and listened to reports. Yet his thoughts kept drifting back to the envelope. Someone was digging up his past, knew too much.
Afterward he returned to his office, flipped the sheet overblank, no signature, no contact, just the promise of a future call.
He scrolled through his contacts. The old partner? They hadnt spoken in a decade. Maybe he was angry that Andyd moved on to his own venture, while he stayed in the shadows. But how did he know about the accountant? The partner hadnt cared about personnel histories.
Perhaps a current employee uncovered old files? But how would they know about that thirdfloor office from 98?
He paced, weighing options. Call the old partner? Ask outright? Did you send me a letter? sounded foolish. Maybe it wasnt him.
His phone buzzed. A message from Blythe: Are you definitely staying late? Need to know if I should start dinner.
He stared at the screen, unsure what to reply. Everything felt fragilehome, office, the familiar routes. A single misstep and it could all crumble.
Ill try to be early, he typed, setting the phone aside.
The day unfolded under a silent threat. The bank meeting, the lunch with the partner, project discussionsall performed like rehearsed theatre. Inside, he waited for the promised call.
Evening came, and the secretary peeked in.
Mr Thompson, you had a call from an unknown number. They said theyd call back later.
Did they identify themselves?
No. The voice, she paused, male, calm. Said it was a personal matter.
He nodded, feeling the familiar knot tighten.
Driving home, he watched the city blur pastlampposts, shop signs, commuters at bus stopsall melding together. The driver chatted about traffic, Andy merely nodded.
At home, silence greeted him. Blythe had left a note on the kitchen table: Off to my sisters, dont wait up. Next to it, a plate covered with cling film. He poured himself a dram of whisky, settled in the lounge, turned on the TV without picking a channel. The picture flickered, but he didnt really watch.
His phone lay on the side table; each new notification made him jump, yet only work emails and ads appeared.
Night brought sleeplessness. Faces floated in his mind: the accountant whose name he couldnt recall, the partner whod once urged him forward, the young woman from another department whod vanished when the office closed. All seemed distant, like someone elses life. Then a thread tugged.
The next morning the letter no longer felt like a dream. It sat in the drawer, neatly folded. He pulled it out, read it again. No new insights.
At lunch, an unknown number rang.
Yes? Andy answered, tension rising.
Mr Thompson, good afternoon, the voice was calm, unaccented, devoid of any flourish. I assume you received my letter.
Who is this?
It doesnt matter. What matters is that I know what you prefer to keep quiet. I can tell those close to you about it, or I can keep it to myselffor a price.
Andys grip tightened on the receiver until his knuckles whitened.
If you think you can blackmail me his voice cracked.
Im not thinking, I know. The voice continued, I know about the sham contracts, about the man who lost his job and his flat. I know how you built a career while he scraped by with odd jobs. Your résumé looks spotless, doesnt it?
What do you want?
Talk. Tonight, seven oclock, the little café on the corner of your street. You know the one. Come alone. And dont tell anyoneyour partner, your wife. You understand how quickly gossip spreads.
The line went dead. Andy held the phone, listening to the silence.
He knew the caféa modest place with a window where mums with toddlers and retirees with newspapers lingered in the evenings. He and Blythe sometimes popped in on weekends.
He glanced at the clock: half past two. Hours stretched ahead, each minute thick with anticipation.
Work ceased to exist. He stared out of his office window at the slow crawl of raindrops on the glass. Thoughts swirledavoid it? Ignore it? But the letter was already in his hands, evidence that the caller possessed something.
Call the police? Report extortion? That would mean spilling the beans about the original fraud. The police rarely fight for reputations.
He told the finance director he needed to step out for personal matters. The director merely nodded; in their world, personal business was respected as long as it didnt disrupt the bottom line.
In the car, Andy found himself watching pedestrians, convinced each glance held a secret. The driver asked if he wanted a detour; Andy just shook his head.
Back at home, the café was visible from the kitchen window, two houses down. People inside laughed, glanced at phones. Everything seemed ordinary.
Blythe entered the kitchen, a faint look of surprise on her face.
Youre early. Something happen?
He wanted to say all was fine, that he was just tired, but the words stuck.
Ive got a meeting downstairs. At the café. Workrelated.
The café? she raised an eyebrow. But you have meeting rooms here.
People asked. Its more convenient for them.
She studied him a beat, then shrugged. Alright. Im off to my sisters for her birthday. You coming?
Ill see, he replied, his tone vague.
She left, bag in hand.
Time crawled. Finally the clock neared seven. Andy slipped on his coat, descended the stairs, and stepped out into the cool, damp air, clouds heavy above.
At the cafés entrance he paused, inhaled deeply, and went in.
Inside, soft music played. A few tables were occupied. He scanned the room, trying to spot the person who might hold the strings.
By the window, at a modest table, sat a man in his fifties, slightly balding, wearing a plain shirt. His face was familiar yet strangea blend of the old office, the stacks of paperwork, a man hunched over ledger books.
Andy recognised him instantly.
The accountant lifted his gaze and nodded to the empty chair.
Take a seat, Mr Thompson, he said.
Andy lowered himself, the chair creaking.
The letter the call? he asked.
Yes, the man replied, eyes steady. Didnt expect you to show up.
Andy felt a chill travel down his spine.
I… I didnt know what happened to you, he said.
Of course you didnt. You were busy climbing ladders while I was left with the rungs, the accountant replied, a trace of fatigue in his voice. You signed those contracts; you moved on. I stayed stuck.
A waitress arrived with menus. The accountant ordered tea; Andy was offered coffee, which he accepted without much thought.
What do you want? Andy asked once the waitress left.
The obvious answer, the accountant smiled thinly. Money. Not because Im greedythough it helpsbut because I need compensation for the years lost. I dont want publicity. I just want you to own up, and well settle.
Andy clenched his fists under the table.
I didnt realize it was that serious.
It was, the accountant said. It was convenient for you to stay ignorant.
He sipped his tea, eyes drifting to the window.
The money is reasonable, not astronomical, but noticeable, the accountant continued. Its not about silence; its about restitution. I wont go on TV. Just tell your partner and wife the truth, and were done.
How will you verify? Andy asked.
In a week Ill call your partner. If he says he knows everything, were clear. If not Ill do what I must.
Panic rose in Andys chest. A week to dismantle his carefully built legend. Either he confessed, or someone else would.
Youre not the only one involved, right? My old partner, the director?
I know them too. You were the one who signed. The rest faded away. The accountants tone was steady, not triumphant, just weary.
Why now? Andy pressed. Its been decades.
Because I cant live with it any longer, the accountant answered quietly. And because you still have something to lose.
They sat in silence for a moment while a pair of young women giggled over a film discussion at the next table. Life went on around them.
Ill think about it, Andy finally said. Give me some time.
You have a week, the accountant said, standing. Ill be back for the payment. Not for the silencejust for the closure.
He left a modest tip on the table and walked out, the bell above the door jingling.
Andy remained, the coffee growing cold. His hands trembled slightly. The decision loomed: reveal everything himself or wait for the inevitable fallout.
The house was dark when he got back. Blythe had left a note: At my sisters. Back late. He closed his office door, sat at the desk, and pulled the envelope from the drawer, placing it beside his phone. He opened his laptop, typed the accountants name into a search, and found a few old recordsdebt notices, a jobseeker ad, a dated Help Wanted flyer. A life that ran parallel to his own, but on a very different track.
He felt the urge to justify himselfIt was a different era, everyone did it, I was taking a risk. Yet the words sounded hollow even to his own ears.
His phone rang. The screen showed his partners name.
Yes? Andy answered, keeping his tone steady.
Great news from the banktheyre on board with our terms, but they want you to sign tomorrow. Also you seemed a bit off today. Everything alright?
Andy glanced at the envelope.
Just a bit tired, he replied. Long day.
Take it easy. Tomorrows a big one.
The call ended. Two voices now fought inside his headone urging him to pay, to buy time, the other insisting the thread was already pulled and hed have to face the consequences.
He imagined the look on Blythes face when he finally told her, the steady stare of his partner, the accountants expectant eyes. The past, once a quiet shadow, now loomed over his desk.
He walked to the window, watched the café across the street, its patrons unchanged by the drama that had begun two decades earlier.
His finger hovered over his partners contact. He pressed call.
Hello? the partner said, driving.
Can we talk? Not about the bank. About me, Andy said.
Im on the road.
Later tonight, at my place. Its important.
Okay, Ill be there after eight.
Andy hung up, the silence of the flat pressing in. He had made his choice.
He dialed Blythe.
Yes? her voice was bright, background chatter audible.
Where are you?
At my sisters, we just sat down. Anything wrong?
He held the envelope, the rough edge of the paper feeling like a border between two lives.
When you get back, we need to talk. Something important, he said.
Youre scaring me, she laughed.
Ill explain. Its about an old job. Very old.
She hesitated, then said, Alright, Ill try not to stay too long.
He put the phone down. The ticking clock reminded him that time was still moving.
He ran his fingers over the envelope, feeling the slightly textured paper, now a thin line separating his past from his present. He didnt know how things would endwhether his partner would explode, whether Blythe would shut down, whether the accountant would still call. No guarantees existed.
One thing was clear: the past could no longer be locked away. It sat on his desk, walked through his flat, peered out the café window opposite.
He placed the envelope back in the drawer, left it unlocked, sank into his chair, and closed his eyes.
The front door clicked shut. Footsteps approached, keys clinked on the hall table. He opened his eyes, turned toward the door, and listened to the approaching steps, knowing the conversation that was about to begin would never let him return to the quiet, comfortable silence he once knew.
